


they can take the kids from the summer (but they'll never take the summer from me)

by jolt



Series: drop a heart, break a name [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Established Relationship, M/M, Overwhelming Cheesiness, summer shenanigans, warped tour au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/pseuds/jolt
Summary: Everybody's living like they're crazy in love.Featuring commitment issues, hijinks, mild nudity, summer jams, and boys who are far too in love for their own good.(Or, the [final instalment of] the Warped Tour AU)





	they can take the kids from the summer (but they'll never take the summer from me)

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS AN ENTIRELY FICTIONAL STORY!!! IT'S ALL FAKE. GOODBYE.
> 
> This verse didn’t feel complete without a Mitch/Auston coda (although codas probably aren’t supposed to be 12k but oh well). And then the Mitch/Auston coda turned into more Zach/Willy turned into more Dylan/Connor turned into that also doesn’t feel right without some more Jamie/Tyler, so. Now this is the Frankenstein’s monster mosaic of all those impulses. Enjoy! 
> 
> Also I’m canonically garbage at writing established relationship fic, which is my own creative hurdle bc I just love a slow burn/getting together, so this took me a while to finish. THAT BEING SAID please don’t let the overwhelming cheesiness of this turn you away, because all my pop punk boys are happy and in love!! 
> 
> title (and summary) from all time low's song the beach, which is a happy, bubbly song about summer and the beach and love and good things!

Tampa, FL

 

“Hear me out — ” Tyler says, which Jamie recognizes as Tyler Code for _I am about to share a bad idea with you_. “What if we got married?”

Jamie nearly spits out his coffee. It’s 6am, Day One of Warped Tour, and technically, Jamie’s not even supposed to be on Tyler’s bus right now. “Segs. Please tell me you’re not proposing to me?”

Tyler pouts, and has the audacity to look upset — as if Jamie hasn’t literally wanted to marry him from the second they met on this same stupid fantastic excruciating wonderful tour years ago. “I mean, kind of?” He answers, and now Jamie frowns.

“No. When we get engaged, it’s not going to be because of a conversation that started with _hear me out_. Where’s the romance?”

Tyler’s head snaps up. “Oh. So it’s a _when_ , eh?” He asks with a glint in his eye.

“Of course it’s a _when_ .” Duh. Jamie’s been looking into buying them a house — buying them a _dog_ — for fuck’s sake. “And _when_ it happens, you won’t be prepared.”

“I was just thinking that we’re in Vegas in July, _so_ …” Tyler’s voice trails off and Jamie wants to put an end to that train of thought _stat_. No way Jamie’s been working out the logistics of going on band hiatus, settling down, and marrying the undoubted love of his life for the past year, only to have Tyler’s impulsive ass derail the plan.

Instead of answer Tyler’s, like, completely preposterous suggestion, Jamie just tips his head onto Tyler’s shoulder, feigning exhaustion. It’s barely dawn and they’ve got one hell of a summer ahead of them, so at least his fake fatigue can be excused, even if it’s a cheap way of getting out of the conversation.

 

-

 

Connor spends his first day on Warped Tour getting the lay of the land. He cautiously assesses the set up of their merch table, carefully examines the map of the venue, and makes sure to set several alarm clocks in his phone for their different events for the day. The band had basically been cooped up in the studio for the past three months, churning this record out of them, and they haven’t spent a full summer on Warped as a band. So he just wants to make sure everything starts out on the right foot. In Connor’s 10 Minute Misconduct days, they’d managed to book a small stretch along the East Coast, but it was pretty low-key. Nothing, apparently, like what they were about to embark on.

Jamie’s been subtly giving him pointers, because this is Your Overtime Heroes’, like, _ninth_ time on Warped Tour, and they’re seasoned pros.

“You might be nervous,” Jamie says, “writing always helps me with that.”

Connor respects that, because not only are his early tour jitters making him an utter wreck right now, but writing music is arguably his favourite part of it all, so. Now Connor’s writing with Jamie Benn. Despite it being barely ten in the morning, Jamie hands him a Coors Light. 

“Writing juice,” he explains, which Connor finds hilarious, so he laughs loudly. Then he chastises himself for reacting like such a dork.

They’re both sitting, with notepads balanced on their laps, in collapsible lawn chairs behind Jamie’s bus, crammed in the small bit of shade it casts. The beer is refreshing, at least, and being in the presence of someone so obviously comfortable here does help Connor’s nerves some.

They got close after touring together, which was pretty cool and something that Connor journaled _heavily_ about at the time. But now, at least, the sheen of befriending an idol has worn off enough for them to just be able to sit and write songs together or otherwise just shoot the shit.

So when Jamie tells Connor about his grand Warped Tour proposal, he’s immediately into it. Connor thinks it’s impossibly sweet, but Connor’s also been told (several times, mainly by Dylan) that he’s a sucker for anything remotely romantic.

(As if Dylan — of all people — is somehow immune to tour romances. _Please._ )

“I’m thinking about doing it in Dallas, where we first kinda got the ball rolling,” Jamie says.

Connor figures _got the ball rolling_ is Jamie’s demure way of saying _boned_. He nods. “Were there any other significant dates? You could, like, spread it out kind of. Make it feel like the whole tour is a proposal.”

That’s how Connor would do it, anyway. Not that Connor’s in a position to be _proposing_ , or anything like that.

(Not that it hasn’t crossed his mind, but like. That’s kind of absurd, right? They’re still so young, and their thing is pretty fragile all things considered, despite how abundantly happy it makes him, and —

Beside the point, here.)

When Connor gets back to his bus, he finds Leon and Nursey have somehow managed to cram themselves into an inflatable kiddie pool.

“Con!” Leon calls, and holds up his Stella in salute. “Come join us!”

Leon’s been unofficially voted _Most Built_ on every single tour they’ve been on, and Darnell’s not exactly pint-sized, either, so the image of them in a rainbow kiddie pool in the middle of a clearing, limbs completely akimbo, is quite a sight.

Connor scratches his head. “I — how are you fitting into that?”

“Man tetris.” Nursey answers immediately. Because of course they’ve already given this a name, the _dorks_.

“Count me out!” Connor hollers, tapping his notebook for emphasis. “I have a song to finish.”

“This kid never stops,” Leon says, and he sounds amused. To be fair, they are about to put out a new album in a few weeks. But it was Jamie’s idea in the first place and Connor starts to itch if he’s not putting pen to paper. Besides, he’s got a lot of material for writing, these days.

Connor never planned on being a front man. He always knew he could sing, and always wanted to play guitar, even though he grew up taking piano lessons. And he knew that, if he worked hard enough, he could make something of that. He just envisioned himself more as someone who did those things off to the side of the stage, maybe, and let someone else do the big talking and crowd-hyping and stuff.

It’s just. It’s exhausting, sometimes, being at the helms of a huge show constantly. Those streaks where he’s gotta be up there singing, performing for, like, twenty days in a row with no break. Jamie’s sympathetic, even if he’s not a front man himself; he still does a fair bit of singing each show.

At the very least, Connor’s reached a point where singing in front of thousands of people doesn’t make him instantly curl in on himself. Back in the day, being on a stage in front of even a dozen people was terrifying beyond all articulation. But Dylan would always be right there, next to him, and Mitch would be their backbone stationed behind the two of them. The good thing about being a three-piece is their sets were always arranged to have them in a triangle formation, so Connor was never at the centre. He was in the front, but equally so with Dylan.

He can’t explain what changed when he left 10 Minute Misconduct. Isn’t even sure he really wants to, to be honest. Maybe it was the sheer, blind faith the other guys put in him from the get-go that gave him enough confidence to at least _pretend_ to be a comfortable front man. Not that Mitch and Dylan didn’t have faith in him, but it’s different — feeling that affinity for someone you grew up with versus _earning_ it from people you haven’t known your entire life.

And he was proud, in some deranged way, to have found a niche that didn’t include Dylan. They’d defined themselves by each other for nearly their whole lives, which was admittedly normal for their age but nonetheless a little dangerous. And then, when they started having having opposing creative ideas, the idea of leaving seemed less like a betrayal and more like a lifeline.

Connor used to wonder about what his life would be like had he never left the band. It’s a weird, Twilight Zone train of thought, because so much of his current confidence comes from the knowledge that he could make it without a childhood crutch. From the freedom of expressing exactly what he felt in exactly the way he wanted, and to be almost unconditionally supported by three other guys who _trust_ him. And, at the end of the day, Connor doesn’t have it in him to regret any of it. Besides, The Soundless Deep are his _brothers_.

Auston’s got a flare for performing. He can execute these insane solos like it’s nothing, and he likes to headbang on stage, tossing his hair around in a way he must know drives people wild. Nursey’s such a talented drummer and can hit such insane rhythmic patterns that it constantly blows Connor away. And Leon, he’s special. He and Connor are synched in a way that reminded Connor of him and Dylan, when they first got the band together. Leon knows where he needs to be, where Connor needs him to be, and he’s as patient and solid as the baseline he delivers. The guys anchor him, as cliché as that sounds. Connor’s vocals and guitar skills are solid, but amping up a crowd of hundreds of people, guiding them through their set, and somehow making this a memorable experience for them all, that’s harder. That’s learned. Some people really have a knack for it, like Dylan, but it’s just another thing Connor has to put work into.  
  


Atlanta, GA

 

It’s hot.

Like, stupid hot.

Like, Auston forgot how fucking hot it can get when you’re playing outside in the middle of the fucking June under the burning summer sun.

It’s at least 200 degrees out in Atlanta and there is not nearly enough ventilation in, like, the _atmosphere_ for it to be even remotely bearable. They’re in peak sun, 1pm, and Auston’s long since abandoned his efforts to stay dry. By this point, he’s dumped at least four of the coldest water bottles he could get his hands on straight on his head. His shirt is soaked. Drai took the preemptive measure of just forgoing a shirt altogether, which Auston applauds.

“I might die here. I literally might die in the middle of Georgia.” Nursey says, fanning himself with a folded up program.

Auston just grunts in response. He has some semblance of dignity to maintain in the extreme heat. He’s from Arizona, for god’s sake; he should be able to at least pretend to not be bothered by southeastern temperatures.

Next to him, Connor is just dousing himself in his spray bottle of SPF 50, and threatening to do the same to anyone who comes within a two foot radius.

“I heard sunscreen isn’t effective after, like, SPF 30,” Leon says, hovering as Connor continues with a third layer over his shoulders.

“Pretty easy for you to say,” Connor answers mildly, gesturing to Leon’s evenly tanned shirtless torso. Leon just winks, which makes all of them roll their eyes.

For whatever reason, the banter makes Auston think of Mitch. Because, like, Mitch is probably nowhere near as diligent about sunscreen as Connor is, but he definitely must have the same aversion to the sun, based on his lily white complexion. The train of thought is dumb, though, because then Auston starts thinking about Mitch’s skin, the way he only seems to blush when he’s happy, the way he’s so, ridiculously ticklish at the back of his knees. Thinking about Mitch’s skin just leads him to thinking about Mitch in other ways. Weird, abstract ways. Like how he and Mitch will be spending most of the summer on the same tour. Auston’s — don’t get him wrong — he’s _stoked_ to be spending most of the summer on the same tour with a guy who is literally his boyfriend. But he’s also petrified, because they haven’t spent so much uninterrupted time together since, well, The Tour That Changed Everything. Since then, it’s been a night here, a few hours there, whenever their schedules aligned enough for that to be possible. Otherwise, it’s a constant text exchange, blurry FaceTimes, and feeling, in spite of it all, like it’s still not nearly enough contact.

The thing about long-distance is that it’s weird and sometimes blurry. It’s not exactly like Auston worries about his relationship crumbling at any instant, but when they’re in Chicago and Mitch is in Brussels, things are strained. But that’s part of the gig, anyway. Someone’s always missing someone. Auston’s just used to being the version of himself that’s constantly missing Mitch, and he’s only marginally freaking out about the fact that in two days, he’ll be the version of himself that gets to be Mitch’s present boyfriend. Because what if Mitch realizes he doesn’t like that version of Auston as much as he did when they first met?

“Aus, dude, please stop looking like someone kicked your puppy,” Nursey says, snapping Auston out of his reverie.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Connor asks. Auston kind of hates that he was pouting perceptibly enough to be called out by the guys on it, so he just waves them off.

“Is this because you still haven’t told Mitch you love him?” Leon says, à propos of fucking _nothing_ because Auston told him that after an _extreme_ amount of whiskey and _in confidence_ , like what the fuck Leon?

The problem is, commitment’s never been his thing. Leon tells him _constantly_ that this is a “fucking cop-out of an excuse, bud” — but it’s true. Auston knows that doesn’t even make him remotely worthy of the, like, sincere, beautiful, sweeping glow of Mitch’s light. But being in bands since he was in high school, and now being part of a pretty successful one on top of that, has always meant that music comes first. It meant cramming into vans and overnight drives past state lines and busting your ass trying to write the perfect hook and spending so much time in a recording studio you forget what daylight feels like. Beyond the occasional hook-up, a relationship never figured into that lifestyle. It wasn’t feasible with success as the goal. And success turned out to be attainable when he met Connor and they formed this pilot project of a band with Darnell and Leon, but even then. Auston couldn’t imagine himself being tied down, so to speak, at the height of his success; twenty-two years old in a dope fucking band with his best friends, travelling the world and making music together.

Auston knows he’s the dude who gives, like, core cred to their band. He’s the stoic one, the one who looks vaguely angry in all their promo pictures. Connor’s the prodigy, Leon’s the hot bearded one, Nursey’s the funny one with the nice smile, and Auston’s the stoic one. At least, that’s how Breyana decided to refer to them. And Auston — it’s not like he’s ever been particularly emotionally stunted. You have to be pretty comfortable with acknowledging your wealth of feelings to be in a pop punk band, even if that doesn’t mean always addressing them in healthy ways. He’s had crushes before, or whatever. That being said, he had never known what it was like for a single person to infiltrate your life on a cellular level and for you to actually _want them to_. To feel like you’re underwater, and all sound is muffled. Sensations are dialed back. Everything in the world is honed down to one single person. For Auston, that’s both addictive and terrifying.

And then The Tour That Changed Everything happened. And Mitch happened. And Auston has been reckoning with an entire shift in worldview ever since.

Mitch just —

He completely kicked Auston’s ass. In the _best way_ possible. Auston was gone from the get go, and never even bothered asking for his heart back — he didn’t want it anymore.

So now they’ve been _dating_ , however seriously or casually they’re capable of, for almost eight months, but they kind of have yet to say _I love you_ . It’s not like Auston hasn’t thought it. It’s not even like he hasn’t said it, tangentially, in a _oh you’re so awesome I love you_ kind of way. But a sit down, face-to-face _I love you_ without even a slight shit-eating grin, not so much. Every time he hangs up the phone, he thinks about saying it. But it feels weird, to say it over the phone. Cheap, almost.

And, okay, he realistically shouldn’t be _freaking out_ this much about the fact that his boyfriend’s band is joining the tour in three days. And yet —

“—emotional maturity of, like, a tomato,”

“If tomatoes were sentient, they’d probably do a better job of dating Mitch,”

Auston groans, and kicks a collection of gravel in their general direction. “Please stop.” They hit the stage in literally five minutes, and this is what they’re talking about. They’re talking about what a terrible boyfriend Auston is, while hundreds of people are shouting _T S D! T S D!_ a few dozen feet away. This is Auston’s life, apparently.

“Tough love,” Leon answers, nuzzling Auston’s hair and completely messing it up in the process.

“It’s only because we care,” Nursey adds, hooking his chin over Auston’s shoulder. Auston makes sure to roll his eyes, so that Nursey can see his exasperation up close.

“He hasn’t said it either, for the record,” he says, because he feels he has to clarify that.

“No offense, but it’s because he’s probably worried that you haven’t said it.” Connor says. Sometimes, the fact that one of his best friends was best friends with his boyfriend growing up is a real pain.

“Look, I’m working on it,” Auston says, which is easier than explaining all the reasons Mitch renders him an absolute and complete nervous wreck.

They eventually get the cue to start lining up. Auston grabs his Fender and takes his time fitting the strap over his shoulders. He makes a bit of a show of adjusting his ear-piece and fiddling with the tuning pegs so the other guys will just back off for, like, half a second for once. He doesn’t get a whole lot of peace — maybe ten seconds — before Connor is motioning for them to come closer.

“Huddle time,” Connor says.

They all crowd in together and sling their arms over each other’s shoulders. It’s awkward, because they’ve got two guitars, a bass, and a set of drumsticks to contend with, but they do this before every show. And petty arguments or not, a ritual is a ritual. They bellow their chant, followed by an intricate combination of high fives, blow a kiss to Freddie, who’s standing backstage holding a goddamn clipboard like a tour manager from the 90s, before filing onto the stage.

Nursey sets up behind the drum kit first, then Auston starts hitting the opening chords on their new single, before the rest of the guys follow onstage to a swell of loud cheers.

The shows always make Auston feel like he’s flying. Warped Tour especially so. It’s a unique vibe, playing outside, playing alongside so many different bands. There’s a real sense of community among hundreds of sweaty people jumping and shouting to loud music. Looking heat stroke in the eye and fucking spitting in its face because the music wins every time.

There are kids crowded as far as the eye can see, beach balls bouncing in the air, a pretty decent-sized moshpit, and some respectable attempts at crowd surfing. Despite the barrier between the stage and the crowd, one girl actually gets pretty close, so Auston motions to the security guy to give her his pick.

Auston makes it a point not to check his phone when they’re on stage. It’s pretty unprofessional, for one, and also, he just prefers being in the moment. Sometimes, being in a band in the alternative scene feels like walking a tightrope/balancing/etc. Because despite having a pretty large following, all things considered, there’s always the fear that it’s somehow going to get taken away. It’s delicate, precious, and even though they’ve enjoyed some pretty sustained success, who knows what might happen. When they might just wake up and all of it will be over. Point is, Auston likes to have fun on stage. He’ll throw picks, and he’ll hop onto Nursey’s drum platform, and he’ll play back to sweaty back with Leon, and he won’t check his fucking phone, which means he won’t be notified that Mitch has “ _made it!! :)_ ” until much later, after he’s coming down from the raw adrenaline of performing.

And…

 _Fuck_ .  


Charlotte, NC

 

Tour managing three twenty-somethings in addition to a full crew of also twenty-somethings on what is essentially a big drunken punk rock summer camp sometimes makes Zach feel more like a camp counsellor than a tour manager. A bad one, at that. He constantly has to wrangle the guys to get places on time, while ensuring they cause the least amount of mayhem possible, while also using positive reinforcement so they don’t just permanently see him as some stick in the mud.

But that’s not entirely Zach’s fault. Just yesterday, the guys vandalized Zach’s the memo Zach posted on multiple walls of the tour bus to inform them of the day’s itinerary. He’d even pored over it meticulously, carefully wording his friendly but firm reminder to _not be late for soundcheck and/or the merch signing and/or the set at 3_ to eliminate any and all room for innuendo. Apparently, though, nothing is sacred. Nor free from drawings of boners.

It’s a delicate balance, and, yeah, sometimes Zach just ends up being the stick in the mud.

“So, I’m sorry guys but there are three people coming to interview you this afternoon,”

He’s met with a collective groan.

“ _Zach_ ,” Mitch whines, “you promised no interviews.”

“It’s just one local radio station and two blogs,” Zach answers, trying not to sound exasperated. He knows there are other things the guys would rather being doing than giving interviews, but it’s part of the job. There are other things _he’d_ rather be doing than explaining to a group of ostensibly professional musicians why they have to give interviews. “I told them twenty minutes each.”

“Can we do them in the kiddie pool?” Dylan asks. He’s wearing nothing but his red booty shorts and a pair of Ray Bans.

Zach feels his phone buzz and checks to see if it’s any of the interviewers. It’s not.

(It’s a pretty perverted text from Willy, who is currently sitting five feet away — )

“Who’s got a kiddie pool?” Zach asks distractedly. It’s not professional to get so fucking _flustered_ in front of the guys, but he can’t help rereading the text to make sure he properly understands all the verbiage.  

“TSD,” Dylan answers.

“Yeah, okay,” Zach says, finally. Sure, let the band interview from a kiddie pool. Why the hell not. Not like there are any real rules on summer tours, anyway. Dylan and Mitch high five. He wonders if Willy wanted him to let his guard down on purpose.

“Sweet,” Mitch drawls, “Dyls, let’s go get it,”

And then the two of them are exiting the bus and it’s just Zach and Willy alone. Zach’s pretty well acquainted with the fact that being in love with a rock star means having to share him with the world, but sometimes actively forcing themselves apart for the sake of professionalism feels cavernous. Getting a moment alone on any tour is rare. On Warped Tour, it feels impossible. Zach sets his phone down and turns to Willy.

Willy, who’s in a tight Blue Line Strike tank top and his own green booty shorts, legs spread wide.

Zach’s mouth goes a little dry. In a mostly professional way.

He _knew_ he should have put up more of a fight when Dylan suggested the band adopt multicoloured Adidas booty shorts as their summer Warped Tour gimmick. He could have suggested mumus instead. Or, at the very least, just convinced them to spend the summer in board shorts and t-shirts like everybody else.

Zach has his limits. Very, _very_ tangible limits. He likes safe things. He loves spreadsheets and order and making sure this fucking band stays in line and plays their gigs and conducts their interviews and promotes their music.

But he also is just an absolute wreck for Willy’s thighs. He’s only human.

Willy saunters over and wraps his arms around Zach’s shoulders, leaning against him like he’s a wall or a door frame rather than a human person. Zach doesn’t really know how Willy can do that — be all hot and aloof and somehow, miraculously, _also_ into Zach.

“Were the dicks your fault?” Zach asks, mostly as a way of maintaining a shred of dignity while rocking a semi. He’s not trying to get Willy to confess or snitch or anything, but he’s got a better chance of getting to the bottom of the vandalism if it’s the two of them. Not that it really matters, he supposes, since the guys were all on time for soundcheck.

“Zach Hyman, I would _never_ ,” Willy scoffs, pushing Zach to the couch and straddling him with his obscene thighs.

Zach’s Willy _thing_ was distracting enough before it was even a full, like, official _thing_ . Now, it’s almost unbearable. Because Willy will do things beyond Zach’s wildest, most crazed hopes. Willy makes him feel exposed and incandescent, nerve endings to the sun kind of sensitive. He’s wedged himself so firmly in Zach’s life, and Zach’s thought about _not shitting where you eat_ , but that’s a pretty rude and unfair metaphor, all things considered. Nonetheless, Zach’s composure has steadily been thinning these past few months.

“How are you… even real?” Zach blurts, not for the first time. He tries his best, most days, not to be a total dope in front of Willy. He often fails.

Willy grins and there’s suddenly a thousand kilowatts of pure beauty and joy and sunshine directed at Zach. His heart may collapse. He genuinely can’t do anything but kiss Willy, slow and loaded with all his intentions that he knows in his stopwatch mind they don’t have time for.

“You’re such a dork,” Willy laughs, pulling away, “ _you’re_ the one who’s, like, too good to be true.”

Zach shakes his head. Impossible. Willy still doesn’t realize that that’s impossible.

It’s a testament to how dopey and in love Zach is that this is a conversation they have often. Also that Zach has negotiated a better spot for them on the lineup six days in a row, just _cause_.

And, realistically, two in the afternoon in Not-Quite-Charlotte, North Carolina shouldn’t be romantic. Zach has watched enough romantic comedies with Mo to understand the formula of romance. And yes, he can already hear the guys snickering at him for even his internal monologue conjuring such a term as “formula of romance”. Zach digresses. Things like mood, setting, the presence or absence of candles, pouring rain, music or a lack thereof — all those things combine to create romance. Part and parcel. And yet, with Willy, every day is like that. Every day is waking up to _I love you_ post-its and pretending to be exasperated when Willy does impossibly cute things like kiss his nose before hitting the stage, and somehow being made to feel like he is the center of Willy’s universe.

It feels almost selfish, to be so happy.

Eventually, Zach’s phone starts buzzing with a call from the real interviewers, with Willy still perched on his lap. He can feel the line of Willy’s dick pressing against him and really, this is torture, this is Zach’s personal form of Hell, because then he has to answer the phone with Willy kissing at his neck. The perils of mixing business with pleasure only started taking shape in Zach’s mind when Willy became the pleasure.

“Hold that thought, yeah?” He says, because the guys from the blog are literally knocking at the bus door. He hopes Mitchy and Dylan have acquired and set up the kiddie pool, because he really doesn’t want to have to put out a search warrant.  
  


Mansfield, MA

 

Dylan Strome is on their bus.

Correction —

Dylan Strome is _naked_ on their bus.

“ _What the_ —”

“Holy _shit_ , dude, knock next time!” Dylan shouts, whipping around to grab the closest item to cover himself with, which happens to be a box of fucking Fruity Pebbles.

“It’s _my_ bus!” Auston shrieks. “What the fuck!”

Auston only came back to grab his Sharpie, because someone asked him to sign their shirt and Auston realized he didn’t have his Sharpie on him so he had to borrow someone else’s and he did not want to be That Guy who walks around without a Sharpie. Point is, the very last thing he was expecting to _also_ get on the bus was a fucking eyeful of Dylan Strome’s junk.

“Okay, I swear — I was told by Freddie that it was fine for me to wait for Davo here — ”

“Buck-ass nude?! That is _not_ sanitary.”

Dylan waves him off. “Lysol wipes exist. Also, I wanted the element of surprise.”

“Congrats, I think you nailed it.” Auston answers wryly, turning to disappear into the back to give Dylan a chance to, like, make himself more modest.

On second thought, maybe being around the bus when Dylan naked-surprises Connor isn’t the best idea. The two of them are weird and can get, like, intimate and intense at the drop of a hat, as though they feel they have to make up for lost time, or whatever. He should make a break for it. But before he can even spin on his heel and dip, Dylan’s standing in front of him. Luckily, the dude pulled his fucking shorts back on.

“Did you buy multiple pairs or is this going to be the only pair you wear all summer?” Auston asks, mildly disgusted. It’s not like they often get to stop for laundry. Unless you count getting occasionally doused in hose water, which you shouldn’t.

Dylan ignores him. “So where’s Davo?”

“Ten bucks.” Auston says, before he can make himself engage in an actual conversation with someone whose balls are still very much imprinted on Auston’s brain.

“Excuse m—”

“ _Ten. Bucks_.” Auston repeats, grabbing the PDA Jar and giving it a shake so Dylan gets the picture.

“Do you know how many people would kill to have seen what you just saw? Lots.” Dylan says. He’s rolling his eyes, but pulls out a crumpled up tenner from his back pocket and deposits it in the jar anway. Auston nearly rescinds his demand, just based on where that fucking bill has _been_ , but he figures it’s an important symbol to uphold regardless.

“I’m gonna… I’m fucking leaving. I don’t wanna see _whatever it is_ you had planned,” Auston says, and books it off the bus before he has to spend too much time alone with Dylan.

It takes a while to find Mitch, mostly because Auston exhausts the bands-only section of the venue pretty quickly and figures Mitch is probably in the trenches interacting with fans and stuff.

Auston’s right, and as it turns out, Mitch is standing in the middle of the field between two of the smaller stages, offering up selfies to anyone who wants one. Auston waves at him, and Mitch is luckily enough of a pro not to draw attention to Auston as he excuses himself from the small crowd of fans gathered around him. Auston tucks himself behind a tree along the VIP barrier while waiting for Mitch to walk over. Normally, he wouldn’t have any qualms about interacting with fans. Their fans are passionate and weird and awesome and Auston also never wants to be That Guy who forgets who got their band where they are, but also, he just had extended contact with an alarmingly naked Dylan, and kind of needs Mitch to, like, hold him right now.

Mitch lights up like it’s Christmas fucking Morning when he finally makes it over to Auston. He leans in, like he instinctively wants to kiss Auston, but manages to swerve at the last second. It kind of both shatters Auston’s heart into a million pieces and makes him feel like every muscle in his body has atrophied.

“What have you been up to this morning?” Mitch asks.

“Well,” Auston says, “I just saw way more of Dylan than I’d ever fucking like to. I was completely minding my own business and _there he was_ , buck-ass nude on our bus.”

Mitch just laughs, completely unsympathetic. It’s pretty heartless. “Welcome to my world,”

Being on tour means that your personal boundaries are filed down to the point where _maybe_ taking a shit in front of someone is, like, pushing it. Otherwise, yeah, everyone basically sees or has seen everyone else naked, whether from pranks, accidents, or just fucking life, man. And objectively, Auston understands that’s a vital, fundamental aspect to being in a band. He also can rationalize the fact that Mitch and Dylan have known each other for years and are way more like brothers than anything remotely sexual, but that doesn’t help the brief but vicious undercurrent of jealousy that pulls at him when Mitch implies he’s seen Dylan naked possibly more times than he’s seen Auston naked.

“So, not to change the subject — ” Mitch starts.

“But _totally_ changing the subject,”

Mitch punches him on the bicep. He lets his knuckles linger against Auston’s lion tattoo, and Auston pretends not to be phased. “When do I get to hear the song you wrote about me?”

“Who said I wrote a song about you?”

“ _You_ did. Last night. Don’t you remember? You were all _Mitchy there’s a_ **_song_ ** _on our_ **_album_ ** _for_ **_you_ ** ,”

The vague memory is jarring enough, but Auston groans as Mitch continues his dangerously astute impression.

The thing about being in love with Mitch is that it never feels like there is enough space in Auston’s heart to possibly contain his feelings at any given time in any neat or orderly fashion. Maybe that’s why, when it came time for them to buckle down and make a new album, Auston wrote a song.

About Mitch.

He’s a pretty fucking talented guitarist. Just ask twitter. Or Rolling Stone. And genuinely, he’s not a half-bad lyricist, either. The music is Connor’s love child, and he’s careful — so careful — about getting every single sound, every breath, every half beat perfect, but the rest of them contribute when it makes sense. So, sure. He wrote a song about Mitch. He doesn’t regret that.

What he _regrets_ is Drunk Auston complete incapacity for just being chill, and blurting out to Mitch that he wrote a song about him, before the song’s been through enough production to make it sound perfect. Mitch doesn’t understand that Auston wants it to sound _perfect_ , the first time he shows it to him.

“I’m gonna love it even if it’s bad,” Mitch promises, “Even if it’s literally the most garbage song I’ve ever heard. I swear I’ll love it and I’ll mosh to it when you guys play it on tour.”

“It’s not a moshing song,” Auston scoffs. It’s gentle. Connor suggested they invite a string quartet to back up the bridge and final chorus, and he was totally right.

“Every song is a moshing song if you try hard enough,” Mitch points out, and he’s not wrong. He’s not wrong.

Auston continues, “Besides, it’s a good song. Trust me. You just have to _wait_ .” He says, drawing out the word _wait_ like he’s explaining it to a child.

One day, on The Tour That Changed Everything, Mitch took his hand and guided him through the allegedly haunted catacombs of the theatre they were playing, giggling and shoving his way into Auston’s previously unmoved heart. He kept ruffling Auston’s hair, poking at his sides, and insisting it was a ghost. In turn, Auston crowded him against a probably-haunted cement wall and kissed him and —

Yeah.

The Tour That Changed Everything.

But the point is, Mitch really changed _everything_ ,

“It’s so bullshit when people think the only valid expressions of art and self are, like, miserable and angsty. Great music can come from happiness, too,” Mitch had said, probably within the forty-eight hours that separated them being casual acquaintances and them being joined at the hip.

Auston didn’t really understand, then. But after spending a half dozen hours in the studio, focused on nothing but a song that somehow captures the effervescence and weightlessness of being cradled in love with Mitch Marner, he kind of gets it.   


Scranton, PA

 

It would maybe be easier to plan a proposal concurrent to being on Warped Tour if Jamie’s band wasn’t a headlining act. Not in those terms, exactly. Just, _logistically_ . It’s not easy, between meet and greets, sound checks, interviews, merch signings, and also closing the Journeys stage almost every night, to also sneak behind his incredibly intuitive boyfriend’s back and plan a romantic proposal to end all romantic proposals. Jamie is cerebral as hell and that’s works for him most of the time, but it apparently will be his downfall here. Not only does he have that to contend with, but somehow the word has gotten around that this will likely be YOH’s last Warped Tour, or at least their last major tour for a while. It comes up _a lot_.

“So, do you guys have any plans after this is all over?”

Jordie scrubs a hand over his face, but Sid, calm as ever, just nods politely. “Yeah, we’re probably going to take it easy. We’ve been on the road for almost two years non-stop, so it’ll be nice to just get a breather.”

Nicely done.

“Can we expect new music any time soon?” The guy interviewing them persists.

“We’re not actively writing,” Sid says, which is maybe the most diplomatic way of saying that the band is going on hiatus, “but we’re not closing ourselves off to it.”

After the interview, they all share a look.

“I need a fucking beer,” Shea says, and heads straight for the mini fridge.

“Get me one, too,” Jordie hollers. “Okay, so when are we gonna start telling people for real that we’re taking a break?”

“It’s called an Irish goodbye,” Sid answers mildly, “If no one knows you’re leaving, there’s less fanfare. Better like that.”

Your Overtime Heroes aren’t breaking up, _per se_. Hiatus is even a strong word. The thing is, Shea’s got a kid on the way, and Sid is seriously considering starting his own label, and Jord’s been toying with the idea of becoming a manager or something. Jamie, for one, is looking forward to some more time behind the scenes. Writing and producing have always been equally exciting, equally important to him as the actually performing part of being in a band, and he thinks it’s a pretty stable gig compared to a tumultuous life on the road.

Point is, they’ve all got other shit they want to pursue.

The band’s been good to them — better than they could ever have anticipated, and then some. They’ve gone around the entire world, Brazil included, and gotten to share their music with thousands of people. Which, obviously, fucking rules. And along the way, Jamie fell in love. He never thought it would be possible to find something he loved more than being in a band with his best friends, with his _brother_ , but he did. And it’s not like he’s facing some ultimatum of _Tyler_ versus _being in a band_ \-- no. Being on the road constantly, _missing_ Tyler constantly, that’s what weighs on him. Jamie knows that not having roots weighs on all of them differently, but it helps knowing that, though they may not have laid roots, they’ve laid down a legacy, however big or small it may be. They’re all satisfied with that, bone-deep.

Not to mention, though none of them would admit it, they’re getting old compared to some of the other acts on this tour. He’s caught Sid worrying at the fine crow’s feet settling around his eyes several times. And the fact that Shea is going to be a _father_ feels simultaneously terrifying and long overdue.

There’s a party that night, and Jamie hasn’t needed to blow off this much steam in a while. He finds Tyler easily enough, standing in the middle with the guys from his band. Tyler passes him a half-drunk Corona.

“Gee, thanks,” Jamie says, tugging Tyler in for a kiss.

“I’m gonna get another one. Just didn’t want you to be thirsty.” Tyler answers, and Jamie can’t really argue with that.

“Y’all are gross,” Marchy says, pretending to gag.

“Dude, _do not_. I can’t afford to have another pair of shoes ruined today,” PK squawks.  

“What happened to your shoes?”

“Long story short,” Bergy says, “a girl got _so excited_ to meet him that she puked all over them.”

Jamie winces. “Poor girl.”

“Oh, no doubt. She felt super bad,” PK says, “but, like, I had to _burn_ those Converse.”

Tyler then tugs Jamie’s hand and the two of them make their way in the general direction of the beer coolers. It’s cooled down pretty considerably since this afternoon, but Tyler’s still wearing one of those tank tops that look like he might as well be shirtless, it’s so cut up and thin.

“So how was your day? Anybody puke?” Tyler asks.

“No, but I’m pretty sure the interview we did today is gonna turn into a story breaking our hiatus,” Jamie groans.

“Oh yeah? You think it will?”

“At first, we kind of wanted the story to be ours to tell. But now I’m not sure I care so much. We wanna, like, thank the fans and stuff. And tell them not to panic,” Jamie answers. That much is true. He thinks Sid was mostly kidding about the Irish Goodbye, because the last thing they want is to cause undue emotional stress to people who care about them. But at the same time, Jamie’s been pretty single-minded for the past little while. Lately, the thought of settling down with Tyler, maybe buying a small house, finally getting those dogs they’re always talking about getting, crosses Jamie’s mind at least twice every minute.

Then, without warning, Tyler circles around him and hops on his back. Luckily, Jamie’s always vigilant, always prepared for an impending piggy-back ride. Not that it’s easy, by any means, since Tyler’s not that much smaller than he is, but. Jamie puts on a strong façade, to save face.

At this point, about 75% of their current set list is comprised of songs Jamie wrote about Tyler. Hell, just about 75% of their _catalogue_ is comprised of songs Jamie wrote about Tyler. It’s stranger for him to think of a time before Tyler was the molten core of his universe, was every star in his galaxy, than it is to think that five years really isn’t that much time in the grand scheme of things. And maybe it’s wrong, to have this giant thing in your life that you’ve been a part of since high school, this craft you’re responsible for, that’s enriched your life in immeasurable ways, and to be _excited_ to get a break from it. To even consider, in the most recessed corners of your mind, the fact that, if you never return to it, you won’t be crushed. Because the flip side of that is _Tyler_. Tyler, who earlier this week attempted to steal a snow cone machine in order to simulate a snowball fight in the middle of July. Tyler, who you’ve loved from the moment you first saw him.

So, yeah, Jamie’s excited for the current chapter of their band to end, but only because he’s stoked for his life with Tyler to begin. And that life begins with a proposal. Or at least, it will, when Jamie gets his shit together enough to execute his plan.  


Chicago, IL

 

Zach watches the band’s set most days from side stage. It’s not the best view because he’s pretty much standing behind them, but it never gets old, watching them play. Occasionally, Willy will turn back to wink at him, which has Zach blushing to the tips of his ears every time.

Today, the guys are killing it. It always takes everyone a few days to acclimate to a new tour, especially when they haven’t been on the road in a while, but they got into the groove of this one almost immediately, and have been crushing it since day one. He loves watching them play, no matter where in the world they are, or how many times he’s heard the songs. People have told him it’s weird that he could love a band so much yet never want to be in one himself. Maybe that’s a little true, but Zach knows himself well enough to know that this will always be the most satisfying aspect of his life — knowing he played some part in getting these guys to where they are right now, after having tried to impose some kind of paradigm of order on these three incredibly different yet equally chaotic boys. Zach hopes his parents know that the credits he racked up during his aborted business degree aren’t going to waste. Besides, he much prefers this side of the stage than the side that’s immediately in front of thousands of people.

Dylan announcing their next song breaks Zach’s reverie, because they’re about to play a track that’ll soon be released as the first single from the new album. The crowd seems torn between bemusement at a song they can’t sing along to and excitement over new material, but any indifference dissipates the second they start playing. Willy was born to play guitar in a punk band, Zach thinks. He’s always jumping around during the power chords, occasionally doing freakishly gymnastic things like jump splits _while playing guitar_. But he does it with an ease, an instinct that looks second nature. It’s mesmerizing, honestly. When Zach first started managing 10MM, he asked Willy about it.

“Oh, that? I used to cheerlead in high school,” Willy had said, with a cheeky wink, and Zach never bothered to ask if he was taking the piss or not. Willy’s kind of an enigma like that.

Right before their last song, Willy bustles over to Zach and pulls him onstage to point out a sign that says _Will Ny the Punk Rock Guy_ with a laugh, and the crowd responds to his arrival with a series of loud cheers. It’s still startling that anybody in the world should care about Zach at such volume, given all they know of him is from tour videos or the guys’ instagrams or the occasional tweet.

After their set, Willy climbs off the stage to find the girl with the sign. She’s obviously delighted, and shrieks with her friends when Willy offers to sign it.

“Also, I totally want shirts that say that. Zachy,” he says, turning to face Zach, “can we we make shirts that say that?”

It’s unlikely that Zach would ever be able to say no to him. Barring, like, life or death situations, of course. Or situations involving extreme tardiness.

“Give me your contact information,” Zach says to the girl, “and we can arrange something.”

On their walk back to the bus, Willy hooks his arm through Zach’s.

“That sign was fucking amazing. I bet if we make shirts fans’ll love them,” Willy says, “Oh my god, and we can, like, put my face on it and a bunch of science stuff too. How baller would that be?”

“Baller.” Zach agrees.

The sun’s been gone for a while, patched over by heavy, dark clouds, but Willy’s still laughing when they make it back to the bus. Zach thinks about how his mom used to tell him not to frown or else his whole face would get stuck that way. He thinks the opposite is true for Will — and at this rate, Zach’s face will be permanently contorted in a dazed, stupidly happy grin because of it.   


Camden, NJ

 

Dylan is full of wonderful ideas.

Patching up their friendship? Great idea. Actually, for-real dating? Even better.

But, as Connor is intimately familiar with from over a decade of knowing him, Dylan is also full of really fucking awful ideas. Somehow, that’s only amplified by being on a summer tour together.

“It’s a bit slippery,” Dylan is saying, with one hand and foot on his bus, the other on Connor’s, maneuvering in an attempt to climb up.

“Yeah, no shit,” Connor answers, not even bothering to hide the concern in his voice. Dylan could fall. He could fall back, and hit his dumb skull on the pavement.

“No, wait, I’m getting some traction! I think from, like, the humidity or something.”

Connor can’t look. Willy is apparently less concerned for Dylan’s safety, because he juts his chin up to the sun to gauge Dylan’s progress and goads, “Climb faster! I’m bored.”

Connor has a feeling Zach wouldn’t approve of this, either. But he’s not in the immediate vicinity, and Connor’s not sure if the rules of snitching apply in this case.

Finally, after more wiggling, Dylan makes it to the roof of the tour bus. Connor tries not to think about how he’s going to get down from there. Dylan procures the hacky-sack that started this mess from his back pocket and hacks it down to Willy, who manages to catch it in the crook of his ankle. He hacks it in Connor’s direction, and Connor obviously catches it because he’s a fucking hacky-sack champion. But then Connor’s faced with the problem of getting it back up to Dylan on the roof.

“Come on, babe, toss it up here!” Dylan calls, his voice whipped with wind.

“Don’t lean back too far to catch it, please,” Connor calls back, but reluctantly kicks the hacky sack back up to Dylan.

Dylan catches it, barely, and rewards Connor with a toothy smile. “See, I told you this would work. Plus, it’s way more fun when the stakes are this high.”

“I really wish they were a bit lower, to be honest,” Connor says, mostly to himself. Willy hears him, though, and snickers.

Dylan’s always been fearless. An envelope-pusher. A loose canon. Always the one with the dumb fucking ideas, the ones that almost always got them in deep trouble, yet somehow cemented themselves into untouchable memories instantly. It’s exciting, though, and it makes Connor feel young in an exhilarating way — like growing up is for suckers. And Connor, for the most part, enjoys riding shotgun to Dylan’s recklessness. He doesn’t, however, enjoy when that involves actual shotgunning.

“If I win, I pick your tattoo. If you win, you pick mine,” Dylan says, mere hours after the later. He’s already three beers in, but Connor gets the vague impression that he’s thought about this before.

“This is a _monumentally_ bad idea,” Connor answers wearily. Dylan’s like a well for them.

“Scared?” Dylan asks with a brow arched, and it’s infuriating to Connor how well Dylan knows him. How he knows that that single word, the mere invitation of a challenge is enough to have Connor reaching for the can of Bud and his keys.

Mitch counts down, “Three… two… one… _go_!”

So this is Connor’s life. He’s partially sunburnt, potentially has heat stroke from playing multitiered hacky sack all afternoon, and now is competing in a shotgun race for tattoo dominance. A small crowd is forming around them, and there are hollers and cheers that Connor registers tacitly, but he’s all focus, all drive. The precious real estate of his remaining un-tattooed skin is at stake. And besides, Connor doesn’t half-ass things as a rule. As a result, he finishes the beer within a split second of Dylan. Dylan’s complete shock and devastation makes Connor grin. He tugs Dylan in from his neck and plants a beer-wet kiss on his cheek.

Nursey, who’s been filming the whole thing on his phone, beckons him over. “Victory speech?”

Connor rattles off a brief message about perseverance and determination and training for your goals, as Dylan sulks off, all over-the-top dramatic. The footage is probably gonna make it into their next tour video, which satisfies Connor’s competitive nature more than he’d ever admit.

When Connor finds him again, Dylan’s eating watermelon like he’s a child. He’s only a few bites in, but gusto with which he’s attacking it sends the juice coursing halfway down his forearms. There was a Publix nearby, so Tyler and Jamie just, like, _decided_ to buy fifty watermelons and share them with anyone who wanted some. It was pretty rad, actually, because the venues all sell refreshments but the musician discount (which ranges based on, presumably, your radio play and, like, actual tangible fame) still doesn’t justify paying eight bucks for a few thin slices.

Every so often, Dylan spits out a seed. “Maybe a watermelon tree will grow here,” he says, and it’s facetious but still cute.

“You’re getting juice all over those god awful fucking shorts,” Connor groans.

“My shorts _rock_. They’re an aesthetic that you could only dream of ever understanding,” Dylan retorts, and Connor rolls his eyes.

“Oh yeah? Are you ever planning on washing them?”

“Don’t pretend like it doesn’t turn you on,” Dylan says, waggling his eyebrows,  “Besides, your beard is dumb,”

“Your _face_ is dumb,” Connor shoots back.

Dylan recoils, laughing, “Whoa, look out everyone. Comeback king over here.”

Connor punches him. It feels a little like they’re fourteen again, full of hormones, competitive as shit, and entirely inseparable. And maybe for all that time slugs on and circumstances and reality evolves, they haven’t really matured since then. The sky above them is bleeding red and purple and orange, and they’re far enough away from the crowd of the party that Connor can reach out and link his hand with Dylan’s. It’s a simple movement, but it makes Dylan look at him, startled but warm, and Connor is almost certainly too in love for his own good. Dumb ideas and all. The world just feels gentler, more aligned, when he’s with Dylan like this. He thinks sometimes about how, if it weren’t for music, he’d definitely have gone crazy from all the _feeling_ threatening to burst inside him like gigantic fireworks.

Connor still doesn’t have a grasp on all that he missed. Still feels like he’s got a lot of catching up to do. The worth-it kind, though. White dandelion fluff floats in the sky around them, like cotton snow, like stars suspended in the sky.

“Keep in mind I still get to pick your tattoo,” Connor reminds him. “That turned out to be a great idea, by the way.”

Dylan chucks his watermelon rind in a trashcan and turns to Connor. “I would’ve picked something rad for you, you know that right? I wasn’t gonna, like, make it something stupid.” There’s worry in Dylan’s voice, hiding right behind the layers of confidence and ease and strange yet potent charm. It’s always weird to hear him sound uncertain when he’s always been, though not Mitchy’s level of boisterous, solid and sure.

“I know,” he answers, “and I hope you know I’m gonna give you something _rad_ too.”

When Dylan leans in and kisses him, his lips are sticky and he tastes like summer. Connor wonders what Dylan would say if his idea of a rad tattoo turned out to be a watermelon wedge inked onto his bicep. But Dylan always switches gears fast, darting in between deep emotion and ambling conversation like it’s nothing.

“So, get this. We’re at our signing today, yeah? And then, suddenly, there’s this kid who — I swear — she must have been six years old, _maybe_ seven. And she’s in front of our table still holding her mom’s hand and she gives us a CD to sign and starts saying that we’re her favourite band and stuff. And now, I’m panicking because, like, we swear a fuck ton and — oops, there you go — so I wonder how age-appropriate it is for her to be here and — ”

Connor leans back and listens to Dylan ramble on.

“Is it responsible parenting to let your kid listen to songs about, like, blowjobs? Not that I’m in any position to judge anyone’s parenting, but…”

“To be fair, I don’t think you ever actually _say_ the word blowjob, I think you just imply it. So I think you’re in the clear for now,” Connor points out, mainly to humour Dylan.

Dylan laughs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It was cool, though. Even though the kid said Willy was her favourite. I swear, what is it about guitarists?”

Connor coughs.

“Well, yeah, sure. There’s you. But you’re special and you know it,” Dylan says with a wave.

Connor’s deep-seated insecurities and debilitating anxieties keep him from ever becoming too egotistical, but just in case, it’s good to know he’s got Dylan around to keep him humble. As a silent reward, he tugs Dylan in by the torn collar of his t-shirt and kisses him again. Somebody’s started blasting Tears for Fears on the loudspeaker in the distance, and there’s only a week and a half left before summer’s inevitable end. Once this tour wraps, Connor and the guys are headlining a major North American tour to promote their album. They’ll be returning to a lot of these same cities, and probably see a lot of the same kids swaying and jumping in front of their stage. It won’t be the same without Dylan around. It’s never the same.

“ _Something happens and I’m head over heels_ —” Dylan sings, intentionally out of tune.

During their promo for the album, people always want to know what it’s about. The question is always a little reductive, because there are twelve tracks that the four of them collectively wrote on there, and Connor hesitates to talk about it in umbrella terms. He also hesitates to give the approximate answer of, Dylan in November. The closest thing he’s come up with thus far, when people ask him what the new album is about is simple, but effect. And above all, as true as Connor’s own heart on the matter:

Love and touring and being in a band.

 

Pittsburgh, PA

 

For what Zach is certain to be enough times to warrant Willy just forfeiting his own bunk altogether, Willy crawls into Zach’s bunk for the night. It’s barely midnight, but Zach’s been up since dawn because there was a mix up with the day’s lineup that he had to fix, and then a potential scheduling conflict for their UK tour in October, and then Mo needed to file an invoice for their latest merch shipment, and then the day had just slipped through his fingers completely. He’d barely seen Willy all day, besides first thing in the morning and right after their set.

“Hey, Zach, are you awake?” Willy says, quiet enough to technically be considered a whisper, but far too loud to actually create the desired effect of a whisper.

Zach scooches so that his back is touching the wall. “Am now,” he says, as Willy makes himself comfortable at Zach’s side. It’s the point in the night when even the crickets have gone to sleep. Any minute now, the bus will grumble to life and they’ll pull onto the interstate towards Connecticut.

“Kay,” Willy answers, and it takes 0.25 seconds for Zach to realize he’s naked. It’s chill. They’ve been naked together. Multiple times. They do naked adult activities semi-regularly, even. And Zach’s seen Willy naked both in an out of sexual contexts enough times to realistically not be phased by it. But Zach doesn’t think he’ll ever fully acclimate to having so much toned golden skin in his immediate vicinity. Doesn’t think he really wants to. Willy, the human puppy that he is, snuggles in closer, and Zach allows his leg to fall over top of Will’s. It’s a familiar tangle. Willy’s callouses tickle as he traces Zach’s exposed hipbone with his fingertips.

“What are you trying to dream about?” Willy asks. Zach feels his eyelashes against his chest.

Zach doesn’t fully understand, so he just answers, “Just trying to sleep.”

Willy winds an arm around Zach’s waist. “That’s lame. Everyone tries to dream about things before they fall asleep.”

Zach shrugs. “I usually just try to sleep,” he says.

“Okay, well, have fun with that,” Willy mumbles, and Zach can tell by his breathing that he’s about to drop off any moment now.

“Tomorrow we’re in…?”

“Hartford,” Zach whispers, into his hair.

“Nice. Love you.” Willy says, as his grip around Zach’s waist tightens marginally.

Zach’s answer is immediate, and for all that this lifestyle often leaves him feeling out of whack, reeling from all the variables beyond his control, he knows that Willy, here in his bunk like he belongs there, is a constant. “Love you, too.”

Zach falls asleep almost immediately. That night, he dreams what he dreams of most nights,  


Willy.

 

Virginia Beach, VA

 

Auston doesn’t remember the last time they had a day off. He thinks it may have been in Jersey, but at this point, the days have blurred together into a mess of sweat and exhaustion and more fun than Auston thought was humanly possible.

They’ve got some time to kill before everyone packs up and leaves for the evening. Auston was just planning on milling about, maybe coercing someone into a game of frisbee or something, but Mitch wants to go to the beach. Someone’s guitar tech’s friend has a car and offers to give a few people a lift to the beach a few blocks away, and Mitch, being Mitch, snags them two spots in the rickety Corolla. Auston’s leg bounces the entire ten minute drive.

“Thanks, man,” Mitch calls to the techy’s friend, as the car slows to a halt in front of the beach. His name was possibly Rich; Auston forgets.

They walk down to the beach, and Auston mostly wants to grab Mitch’s hand, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. There aren’t even very many people around, and Auston’s not even feeling particularly self-conscious. It’s like he’s frozen, which is, like, his default when he’s around Mitch — even more so when the fact that the tour will be over in less than a week and Mitch will be jetting off across the pond loom over him. He feels all the atoms in his body vibrate and it’s so much _feeling_ that his mind can’t process it all. All around them, seagulls are shrieking and bright, glimmering waves are cresting and racing towards them. Auston always has to remind himself to pay attention to those things, when he’s with Mitch. He has a tendency of zeroing in on Mitch, which still takes getting used to, especially when Mitch is equally as zeroed in on him.

“I still can’t believe you wrote a song about me and won’t let me hear it.” Mitch has brought this up at least once every four to five hours.

“ _I_ can’t believe your impatient ass doesn’t understand the patience involved in crafting one’s art.”

Mitch scoffs but he doesn’t protest. It takes them almost half an hour to walk from the point where they got dropped off to the edge of the beach.

The sand crunches coarsely under Auston’s toes and the water lapping their ankles is frigid and the air around them is humid sticky hot. The ocean rushes at them, insistent, unwavering, guided by the moon. Mitch is kind of like that, Auston thinks. It’s also warm and sunny out, and Auston feels settled in his bones. And yeah, Mitch is kind of like that, too. The brightest star in every universe. The first person Auston looks for in every room. It’s all in all the most perfect summer day that Auston wishes it could last, just a little bit longer. The feeling of being suffocated by your emotions is kind of par for the course, but Auston takes it in stride.

“I was thinking,” Mitch says, slowing down to kick the sand in front of him as he walks, “I don’t think I’ve told you this, and I don’t know _why_ I haven’t told you this, but. I love you. I’m, like, fully _in love_ with you.”

Auston halts. Like his internal switchboard shuts one process down one after another. Sure, he’d had his big moment on The Tour That Changed Everything, a moment he refers to as The Moment That Changed Everything, because there was one moment between Mitch hating him forever and, well, _this_ . But Auston hasn’t even said it since that _terrible_ afternoon in November. Because Auston is a chicken shit. His extremities were all numb and his heart and lungs and stomach kept ramming into each other like bumper cars, he was so nervous. And then Dylan confronted him and he — he confessed.

Auston, he realizes, hasn’t been waiting on bated breath for this moment, but Mitch looks rosy and bright and the wind is whipping his hair into a million directions but his baby blue gaze never leaves Auston’s face for a second. He doesn’t look nervous, either, and Auston knows (knows it in the heart of his own heart) that not a day gone by since that dreary November afternoon that Auston hasn’t loved Mitch and _meant it_. Commitment issues be damned, because what the fuck — why not. It’s not like they haven’t already leapt head-first into something huge and terrifying. They just, heretofore, hadn’t verbalized it all.

“ _Now_ will you show me the song?”

Auston pauses. “Are you… did you seriously just tell me you love me as a way to get me to play you the — ”

Mitch laughs, tipping his head back. “Man, it sounds so bad when you put it that way,”

“Kind of,” Auston grins, “It’s pretty manipulative, actually.”

Mitch shoves him. “Oh my god, stop.”

Auston does stop. He stops walking, and he finally summons the courage to just hold Mitch’s fucking hand already, and he looks Mitch in the eye and says, “I love you, too.”

Mitch stops laughing momentarily, but he resumes almost immediately.

“What?”

“I already knew that, bud!” Mitch cries. It feels counterintuitive for Mitch to tell Auston he knew Auston loved him while calling him _bud_ , but he manages to get away with it.

With Mitch, it comes easy in a way that life has never afforded Auston. The being away part is what makes his head spin like a pinwheel, both over- and underthinking at every possible turn. And he’s under no false impression that he’s some incredible dudebro even remotely worthy of Mitch, but for some reason, Mitch loves him anyway.

Mitch _loves_ him.

It doesn’t feel as weird as Auston imagined it would, having that sentiment confirmed first-hand and then saying it back. No holds barred. It’s absolutely the best feeling in the world.

His heart is racing faster than their feet through the sand, faster than Rich’s Corolla for sure, and Auston slings an arm around Mitch’s shoulders.

“We’re dumb. It’s been established,” Auston says with a grin.

“Fair enough,” Mitch answers and Auston doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Mitch feels completely relaxed underneath him.

Soon enough, they’ll be coasting down the interstate and nobody they pass on the road will know about the colossal, desperate happiness of knowing that Mitch loves Auston. Loves him enough to say it. Loves him enough to tip his head back, laughing, and knock their shoulders together with a, “I can’t believe it took us this long, what the _fuck.”_

Nobody will know, as Auston siddles into a spot on the couch in the back lounge to play Mario Kart with Leon, that he feels sure and whole for what may be the first time ever. Like an insecurity that had weighed on him has lifted, a helium balloon dizzying away, and maybe he’s not immediately gonna be in touch with all his feelings, but what the hell — Mitch loves him, so why not try?

Auston could, quite possibly, fall in love with Mitch a hundred times over. It’s already a little like a falling-in-love-everyday situation. And not even in a 50 First Dates kind of way, just a purely every day he realizes more and more how lucky he is, kind of way. Auston _knows_ that’s the kind of thing that warrants five bucks in the PDA Jar, but it’s not like he’s really inclined to do anything about it besides, well, continuing.

 

Dallas, TX

 

The ring box is heavy in Jamie’s back pocket. Alarmingly heavy. Maybe it’s because Jamie’s, like, hyperconscious of it, worrying if Tyler can detect its outline and ordering his movements in accordance with that fear, but. Today’s the day. And every moment Jamie spends _not_ projectile vomiting from nerves, he counts as a win. If anything, Jamie’s pretty stoked, because he actually got to _shower_ last night. A real shower, too, not just one of the gross communal ones that always get set up in the parking lots. So he’s got that going for him, at least.

“The dog’s name was _Snake_ , which, like, I _get_ is kind of ironic and funny. But also, confusing? Like, I don’t know if that’s the kind of name that starts to get annoying after awhile, you know?”

“Yeah, I feel like that joke gets old pretty fast,” Jamie replies, bouncing his knee up and down. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but both of them are done for the day. It’s always pretty lucky when that happens, and yeah, Jamie had to pull some strings for that to happen here in Dallas, but Tyler doesn’t need to know that.

“ _Exactly_ . Plus, the dog wasn’t cute and soft enough for it to be _that_ funny. You know like when people name their tiny dogs Bear or some shit?”

Jamie hums. “It’s ironic.” The more Tyler talks about this dog, the more… Jamie doesn’t know. Something in him is twisting, churning, and he feels the ring box burn white hot in his pocket. Like, he’d wanted to draw this whole proposal out as much as possible, but that’s feeling like less and less of an option, suddenly.

“ _Yeah_ , and at least comparing your teeny dog to a bear is cute because, like, bears are cute. Ferocious as _fuck_ , but still really cute. Snakes aren’t cute. Why would you want to invite that kind of comparison? Makes no sense.”

And the thing is, Jamie had this huge, elaborate proposal planned. He was going to get Tyler alone for a jam and start playing the first song he ever wrote for him. He had a speech planned about how systemically, on absolutely every level, Tyler has changed his life. It was romantic as shit; he ran it by Jordie last night and even Jordie nearly shed a tear. Also, Jamie’s been working on a scrapbook, because he’s apparently a suburban mom and not a professional punk rocker when it comes to love, containing mementoes from all their tours together. Pictures and posters and setlists and guitar picks. Jamie even tried to drop clues, scavenger hunt-like, for Tyler throughout the summer, leading him to this very moment.

“Tyler.” Jamie says, and Tyler stops talking. Jamie thinks he must stop talking more out of the fact that Jamie is dropping to one knee than anything, but still. The ground is dusty, and where they’re hanging out isn’t nearly as secluded and romantic as Jamie planned, but —

Jamie realizes it doesn’t really matter. It’s clichéd as all hell, but it doesn’t matter. Everything Jamie had planned couldn’t possibly measure against the feeling he gets listening to Tyler talk about a dog named Snake. Because that’s who Tyler is and because Jamie loves that that’s who Tyler is. And hell, Jamie doesn’t think it’s right to deny himself a proposal that’s running on fumes, on sheer impulse alone.

“What the — ?” Tyler starts. Then he bursts out laughing, “Oh my god, no way.”

Maybe not the reaction Jamie was hoping for, considering they’ve been together for five years and literally had a conversation about marriage a month and a half ago, but then.

Then Tyler’s reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small ring box, almost identical to the one Jamie’s clutching by his hip. He should’ve known, should’ve considered Tyler’s infinite capacity to be surprising.

“Get the fuck out,” Jamie says, shocked.

“Are we… what’s the protocol, here?” Tyler asks, and it looks like his grin is threatening to split his face in half. It’s Jamie’s favourite Tyler Face. “Do I just… also get down on one knee?”

“You...were gonna do this, too?” Jamie asks, kind of incredulous. It doesn’t feel like they were talking about dogs two minutes ago.

“Well, I wasn’t going to do it this very second, Jameson!” Tyler exclaims, running a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out a bit, lately. It looks good. “I was gonna wait, but I didn’t trust myself not to forget or lose the ring unless I had it on my person at all times.”

“How long has it been on your person?” Jamie asks.

“All summer, dude,” Tyler answers. Jamie gawks a little. “I was serious, when I brought it up.”

Jamie doesn’t even know if he can properly respond to that. See, it’s not like Jamie thought Tyler forgot about the whole _What if we got married_ thing. No, Tyler’s observant and thoughtful and he latches onto small, meaningful details in a way that makes everyone he talks to feel special. Making others feel special is Tyler’s specialty. So, of course he wouldn’t forget that there may have been a slightly-sleepy conversation in which they vaguely discussed spending the rest of their lives together, but Jamie didn’t expect him to follow through on it so immediately. In Jamie’s mind — and this is something Segs has _tried_ to condition out of him — he’s the reacher. Tyler’s the settler. Of course Jamie would want to marry Tyler, and has virtually always wanted to marry Tyler — because who in their right mind _wouldn’t_? It’s slightly inconceivable to Jamie that Tyler would share that feeling so… ardently. Jamie currently doesn’t even have the self-esteem issues of Warped Tours Past, and yet he still trembles, still worries.

“I don’t think there’s a scenario where I say no, here.” Tyler says, finally.

Jamie realizes he’s just been staring at Tyler for a dope for an uninterrupted minute.

“Does that mean you’re saying yes?” He asks, when his brain manages to catch up.

“ _Yes_ , dumbass, that means I’m saying yes! Are _you_ saying yes?”

“Of course I am!”

Maybe Jamie will show Tyler the scrapbook, later. They’re driving to San Antonio tonight, which Jamie thinks is as good a time as any. If not, then he’ll have time in St. Louis, or Phoenix, or San Diego.

For now, though, Jamie’s fine just waiting.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tyler: This is my ex-boyfriend Jamie  
> Jamie: I told you to stop calling me that *Turns* We're engaged.
> 
> Well, folks, that's it for the Warped Tour/pop punk AU!
> 
> A few things:  
> \- Since this is a fictional Warped Tour, I did my best to create a fictional schedule, just based on schedules of years past. (And, obviously, this doesn’t cover every single fictional date).  
> \- IRL, this was the last summer of Warped Tour, which makes me super nostalgic, but also it felt right to tie up this verse concurrently.  
> \- I hope you enjoyed reading about these hockey boys I fit into pop punk bands as much as I enjoyed writing this incredibly niche series.  
> \- And, of course, thank you to everyone who took the time to read these various instalments, and who left kudos and wrote lovely comments! I really, truly love you all!!!!!!!
> 
> Also, if you want, you can now follow my [writing blog](https://oldjolt.tumblr.com)!


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